


Sounds Like a Plan

by LittleMousling, moogle62



Series: CM Chatfic [9]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Communication, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, Love, Multi, Orgasm Denial, Polyamory, Rimming, Sex noises, Teasing, Threesome, Trust, asking for what you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 22:46:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17907104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: Of all the people Emily and Jon might have expected to be quiet in bed, Lovett isn’t one of them.





	Sounds Like a Plan

“Ah,” Lovett says, barely a sound. Emily only hears it over the rustling of bed clothes and the obscene wet noises from Jon because she’s close up by Lovett’s head, kissing his cheeks and his mouth. Holding him, while Jon eats him out.

It's not the first time they've done this but they don't do it often: Lovett curls up close to them, after, stays quiet, needs to be held.

He's quiet most of the time in bed, really. It's—unexpected.

Emily and Jon hadn’t exactly shorted themselves on imagining how it might be, with Lovett. For the weeks before they finally approached him, the topic had seemed to be all they could discuss: how it might be, with Lovett. What he might like to do with them. And how they could make him sound—break his famously focused trains of thought and speech, make him groan and beg.

Emily made Jon tell her all the things he imagined, all the ways he wanted to hear Lovett's breath catch, his voice crack. Jon's hands on her hips as she rode him, making it last, both of them gasping, hardly able to bear it, the things they were saying.

Now, though, with Lovett squirming under Jon's hands, against Emily, he's nearly silent, holding his breath. 

Emily kisses him more, trying to urge him to make another noise. From the way his hands are fisting, thighs taut where they’re spread, he’s certainly into it. He’d have to be dead not to be, Emily thinks; she’s experienced this exact pleasure herself. Jon is, if she says so herself, fucking fantastic at it.

Jon groans, down between Lovett's thighs, and Lovett's body jerks. His mouth falls open but he doesn't make a sound, even though his chest is rising and falling unevenly: he's clearly close.

“You want a hand?” Emily asks. “Jon’s got two. Actually, you have two, too.”

Lovett nods, releasing one hand from its grip on the bedsheets and transferring it to his cock. “Fuck, that’s hot,” Emily tells him.

His whole body tenses up as he wraps his fingers around his cock, face screwing up too.

"Good," Emily tells him, kissing his cheek, "that's it, stroke yourself."

Jon groans again, louder, but Lovett bites his lip, hard, stays quiet.

He starts off slow—not gentle, hand so tight Emily doesn't know how it doesn't hurt, but slow. It takes him what seems like less than a minute, though, to build up to fast, flying strokes. There's still a sheen of lube on him from when Jon jerked him earlier, on his way down Lovett's body, and the whole thing is just—Christ. Emily loves this. She'd known she would, and she fucking does. "You're so hot like this," she murmurs, running out of things to say but not much caring. "God. I'm so fucking wet. Jon's so good at that, isn't he? Eating you out—"

Lovett makes a noise, actually, finally. It's bitten-off; it barely escapes him, but it's real and it happened and it makes Emily bite her own lip and squeeze her thighs together. _So you_ are _capable of making noise,_ she thinks and doesn't say. _Good._

She doesn't want to startle Lovett, or distract anyone from what's going on now—doesn't want to distract _herself_ even—by slipping a hand between her thighs, giving herself something to take the edge off. Instead, she concentrates on the way Lovett's eyebrows are bunching together, the way his breath is coming ragged, shaking.

She loves that he lets her watch. That he gets off on her watching, even if he isn't sure why he likes it. She's not sure why he likes it, either, but she's not looking a gift horse in the mouth. "Want to watch you come," she says. "Watch Jon making you come." Jon groans again, just this side of a whimper; he's pressed his face so close into Lovett she's not sure how he can breathe. She can almost feel his mouth on her, memory and, and fucking mirror neurons making the scene in front of her seem extrasensory. _God_. "Get—get yourself off, Lovett, I want to see—"

" _Ah_ ," and again it's barely audible, bitten back, but it escapes Lovett all the same. He cranes up for a second, peering down at Jon, Jon's broad shoulders flexing as he hefts one of Lovett's thighs over his arm, and then drops his head back, turns his face to Emily. His eyes are screwed closed, but he wants to show her anyway, _God_.

She's gotten to see him come at least six or seven times now, not including the times he's been balls-deep inside Jon's mouth, but it's not getting old. Call Emily old-fashioned; she likes a money shot. She wants to see him stripe his belly with the undeniable evidence that he's into this as much as they are.

His mouth opens, soundless, as he comes, and she looks down to watch him spurt, to see his thick thighs tighten gorgeously around Jon. "Jesus, yeah," she says, squirming a little. "That's so, yeah. Fuck." 

Lovett's body relaxes slowly, his chest still heaving. Getting his breath back is the loudest he's been this whole time. Jon ruts once against the bed, and then kisses his way up Lovett's thighs again, up his lower belly, mouthing at Lovett's come.

"He's cleaning you up," Emily manages. "Eating you up too."

It seems safe enough, now—and pretty fucking necessary—to work a hand between her thighs and get herself off, too. It's not going to take much, after the excellent earlier exertions and all the delicious watching. She's so wet it's hard to get the right amount of friction, even, and she switches to pressing hard against her clit and rocking it, groaning out against Lovett's shoulder.

"Em," Jon moans, to her side. "Fuck."

"You look so good together," she says, voice tight. "You take it so well, Lovett, Jesus. Get me so hot. So fucking—" and she has to break off to groan again, burying her face against Lovett. She doesn't want to move away from him, both for herself and for him. He likes skin to skin contact after he's been eaten out: that's something she knows now, a new thing she and Jon can hold between them, a piece of Lovett only they get, that he gives to them.

Lovett's arm, trapped under her with the way she's rolled in close, curls up to hold her close, fingertips moving lazily on her skin. He doesn't say anything, but he puts his face in her hair, at the crown of her head, and she can feel the bed shift as Jon cuddles up on Lovett's other side. She comes with a gasp, in long, slow waves, riding them until she has to pull her fingers away.

"Cuddling time," Jon says, brightly, and smacks a loud kiss on Lovett's cheek. He gets giddy, sometimes, after.

He's the one with energy, of the three of them, so Emily sends him to go get a washcloth or three. "You good?" she asks Lovett, low, as Jon trots out. "Was that good for you?"

She can feel him nod against her hair. "I think you know," he says. His voice is kind of hoarse, like he's been shouting. Or like he's been trying so hard not to shout that it's scraped his throat raw just the same.

Emily kisses his bare shoulder.

“I mean, I can put words in your mouth. ‘Emily! You’re a goddess of sex! Jon is a sexy beast! I am overcome! Ruined for any other person, forever! No orgasm has ever been as—‘“

“Okay, okay,” Lovett interrupts, laughing. “It’s incredible how well you can mimic me. I mean, that’s exactly how I speak, you’re better at this than Jon is. You should go write speeches for the president.”

Jon, naturally, comes back in just at that moment. "What about the president?" he says, in the specific too-casual tone he uses to talk about Obama, and Emily doesn't even need to catch Lovett's eye before they're both giggling, curling into each other.

Jon rolls his eyes, climbing back on the bed. "Mean," he says, teasing, and turns Lovett onto his back with gentle hands, leaning over to run the washcloth over his belly, his thighs. Lovett takes it off him before Jon can get any further: some things he likes to do himself, not be watched.

Maybe that's something similar to him staying quiet in bed, Emily thinks, but then—but then staying quiet doesn't seem like it comes naturally to him, whereas Lovett's levels of bodily privacy are obscure but his own.

She's not going to raise it, or anything—certainly not right now when they're all contented and giggly and Jon's tugging her down to kiss her mouth—but she's a planner. She'll put together a plan. One way or another, Lovett's gonna stop censoring himself in their bed.

***

Emily doesn't bring it up straight away. She sits with it for a few days, turning it over for herself before she even thinks about bringing it to Lovett. She does want to talk about it with him, though. She wants—they talk about everything.

 _I'm coming over_ she texts him. _You want anything?_

 _A pony_ , he shoots back. _A different president. A way to explain strange new changes in my life to my mother_

_I can do beer or wine_

_Beer then_

They've got some of Lovett's preferred kind already at their house, so she takes that with her. They've got some of Lovett's preferred brand for most things, really, and have since before they started... since before the three of them were the three of them like this.

She lets herself in, and Pundit comes running up. She trades the beer for the dog, lifting Pundit up and snorgling her belly. “Hi baby! Hi baby!”

“Hi to you, too,” Lovett says, appearing next to her and kissing her cheek. He grabs the beer and takes it into the kitchen, and Emily sets Pundit down and follows him.

“So, how’s things?” she asks, aiming for casual. Based on the look Lovett turns to shoot her, she missed by a mile.

"If you've come to, whatever, ‘we need to talk’ me," he says, and turns back to the counter with a painfully feigned casualness, "skip to that bit."

"Uh, no," Emily says, startled into a laugh. "Are you kidding? No. Definitely not. We're like—the talking I want to do is like, how do we make sure this is as good for you as it is for us so we can keep doing it."

Lovett makes a scoffing noise, and passes her one of the beers. "We don't need to talk about that. Trust me."

"I do trust you," she says. One of the quickest ways to derail Lovett when he's trying to bluster past something, she's found, is to just be honest.

He pauses, looking almost disgruntled about it, and then shrugs. It looks more grudging than she'd ideally like, but she'll take it. "Come sit in the living room with me?"

"Are you inviting me into my own living room?" Lovett asks, but he follows her back in and lets her corral him into the corner of the couch so she can curl up into him, legs folded.

He's so compact, her Lovett. Jon is long and lean, but Lovett folds up small and sturdy, just as welcoming to her. She knows his body so well already.

“You’re cute,” she tells him, because she can’t not. She kisses his temple, too, and finds his free hand with hers, threads their fingers together.

“Is this about your desperate desire for me?” Lovett asks, the joke clear in his voice. “Because I’d hate to disappoint, but—“

She shoves her shoulder into his, and he cuts off, laughing.

"All right," he says, shoving her back. He's smiling in the way that brings out his dimples; he must be a little more comfortable. "If it's not your burning need for my body, what's this thing you want to talk about?"

"Just—everything has been great, for me and Jon. Like, super great. Crazy-hot great."

"So far I'm enjoying this conversation," Lovett says, "but I have a feeling it's about to take a turn."

"No turn! Just, we want to make sure we're making it as great for you, too."

Lovett gets the look that tends to signal he's trying to decide whether he's willing to say something out loud or not. He apparently comes down on 'yes.' "Not to be too blunt, but your husband ate me out for what felt like an hour the other day, so—I have no complaints."

Emily isn't likely to forget that any time soon, and from the way Lovett's colour is rising, just slightly, neither is he. But that's not why Emily's here—not on its own, at least.

"That was really hot," she agrees. "It was—we really love when you're getting something good for you. That's sort of my point."

"Okay," Lovett says. "Feel free to keep it up. Is that it on the talking, or—"

" _So_ ," Emily interjects, "I figured I'd ask you about what it might take to make you ... less quiet. Because it seems like—"

"Wow, wow," Lovett interrupts. "Less quiet. I'm pretty sure that's never come up before, from anyone. I'm pretty sure my whole life has been a whole collection of 'can you please shut up' comments from absolutely everyone I know. This is a new one."

"We never tell you to shut up," Emily says, slightly stung.

She tries to think if there's been anything, any moment, off-hand. She's seen Lovett when someone's remarked how much he's talking—one short-lived but particularly crappy boyfriend really stands out—and she doesn't think she's ever made him look like that, would hate to.

"Not yet," Lovett says, and that's also clearly a joke but—but it helps Emily see, a little, what they might be working with here.

She decides, on the fly, to stop right there with her own planned topic of conversation. Sex noises can wait; this is a bigger deal. "Yeah, that's not gonna happen, though," she says. "Or, I mean, okay, people say dumb things, I might someday say something dumb in the future. But it's been like six years and I love hearing you talk more than I love The Bachelor, okay? More than I love, like—practically anything."

"More than you love Leo?" Lovett asks, fighting a smile.

"Okay, don't push it," she says, and leans in to kiss him. They do this now; they make out. It's mostly all they do, except the watching, but that almost makes it more fun for her. It's like a return to the teenage necking phase she didn't appreciate, and rushed past.

She ends up mostly in Lovett's lap, curled against him. He hasn't shaved yet, so Emily's going to go back to Jon with stubble burn: the thought makes her shiver, happily. She reaches out to smooth down Lovett's curls, letting him hold her up.

He knows what he’s doing, kissing-wise. It’s ... different, kissing a guy and not feeling a hard-on almost immediately. Sometimes he does get hard, but it takes a while, the build-up of stimulation instead of the rush of attraction and arousal.

Once, he jerked off for her, just the two of them. That had been—yeah. She thinks he liked it, too, the almost taboo of it, or the way her gaze was boring into him. He keeps making comments about the intensity of her gaze that don’t feel casual.

She knows he likes it when she tells him what to do. Jon does too, but with Lovett it's different, and not just because of the obvious. Lovett goes down differently, has to work for it, sometimes.

He trusts her with that, she thinks, and that's as vulnerable as she thinks a person can be. Maybe it's not her, or Jon, not something they're doing.

Maybe ... maybe she can get to the bottom of this a different way, with Jon’s help.

The thought makes her squirm a little, climbing up onto Lovett’s lap so she can grind down onto his thigh. Lovett kisses her harder, scratches his nails up into the hair at the base of her neck. “You’re so good at this,” she murmurs, and _that_ gets a real reaction, a smile before he pulls her back in.

Several delicious minutes later—hours? Seconds? Days?—Lovett leans back. “Shall I send you back to Jon like this, or should we call him?”

Emily has to catch her breath for a second before she can even really think about that, her arms still looped around Lovett's neck. His hands are open, splayed out over her lower back: this is still pretty new, him learning where he's comfortable touching her.

"I should—I should go back," Emily decides, and kisses Lovett again. She thinks Lovett might need some time on his own again, to reset. If he asks her to stay, to call Jon over, she will, but she doesn't want to push, not today.

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s not relieved but it’s not grudging, either. She’ll take it. “I’ll see you Friday?”

“Mm. Looking forward to it already.” She giggles, and kisses him one more time. “Okay. Cuddle Pundit for me.”

“Maybe,” Lovett says, but he’s already patting the couch next to him.

"And—text me? After?"

He's looking down at Pundit as he says it, like it's off-hand, but Emily knows better.

"Definitely," she says, and kisses the top of his curls as she heads out.

She texts Jon before she starts the blessedly short drive home— _omw, want you_ —and he's waiting for her when she gets in, pinning her up against the door as soon as she's inside. His hands are a certain kind of eager: he must have been thinking about what she could have been doing with Lovett. She wonders if he can taste Lovett on her, somehow.

She thinks about making him ask, then just tells him. “Made out with Lovett on the couch. He’s such a good kisser, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Jon groans, and squeezes a hand into her waistband. “Yeah, he is.”

“Got me so wet and sent me home to you,” Emily tells him, which isn’t precisely how it happened, but whatever. Her reporting is the fantasy, just like her texting Lovett later about how hot Jon was tonight will be.

"God, Em," Jon says, his fingers slipping under her panties, finding her wet and ready. "That's so—fuck, you're so—"

"Yeah," Emily tells him, and pushes, gentle but suggestive, down on his shoulders. "All worked up for you."

"Fuck," Jon says, throaty, and drops to his knees, taking her panties off as he goes. She could have let him take her to the bedroom, but they've got a nice cushy rug in the front hall for a reason. They can move back there after he gets her off once. Maybe twice.

He hooks her thigh over his shoulder and dives right in. She loves his fucking enthusiasm, never more so than right this minute, when she's wet and wanting and thinking about Lovett's big hands on her back, Lovett's mouth on her neck. "He loved—loved you eating him out like this," she tells Jon, because he deserves it.

She relaxes into it, as much as she can while holding herself up at the same time, pushing against the firm press of Jon's tongue, his clever fingers on her thigh. His mouth is hot and generous, and she comes with barely any build-up, gasping in a way Lovett didn't the night before.

“Fuck,” she tells him, rolling with it. “I was gonna say we could move, but now my knees are weak.”

It’s, okay, a pretty obvious request. He laughs, and stands up, and carries her back into the bedroom. “What now?”

“More of your mouth,” Emily says. “Until I’m begging you to fuck me.”

Jon doesn't stumble exactly, but there's a definite halt in his step.

"Like Lovett will beg you," Emily says, as they reach the bedroom. "Beg you to fuck him. For me— _fuck_ —" and Jon's crawling up onto the bed after her, nosing between her legs again, straight back to business.

She used to let him wear her out, just like this, until she was so weak it almost hurt to come again. Lately, though, she’s wanted him to stop and fuck her, so she goes to sleep thoroughly satisfied but not unable to walk. He certainly hasn’t complained about it, either.

“Wanna—maybe this is what we should do with Lovett next. Wear him out on your tongue and then your cock. Would—you’d like that, huh? You’d—god, Jon—“

She comes again, shivering against Jon's mouth, and puts a hand in his hair, tugs him up to kiss. She can taste herself on him, and can feel how turned on he is: he's pushing against her thigh, urgent. Her come is smearing between their mouths, sloppy and hot.

“C’mon,” she says, short on words now. She uses her hands instead, moving one down to grab his ass and tug him closer. He doesn’t need more than that, and the way she’s wrapping her legs around him, to get the point.

He makes a strangled sound as he pushes into her, and she kisses his throat. “Just like that. Louder.”

She squeezes down around him as she says it, and drags another desperate noise out of him. "Good," she says, losing her breath. He's fucking her in short, tight strokes, like he's pushing for his orgasm already, that wound up. "Again, baby, let me hear you."

He almost whines. She can hear how he’s caught up in all of it, still-wet face pressing into hers, trying to please her with his dick and his sounds, both. “Want—want us to make Lovett sound just like that. Like you sound. Desperate—“

He cuts her off with a groan, hips stuttering. He really is close, and she wonders if it was the wait while she drove, or eating her out, or talking about Lovett.

"Desperate for us," she continues. "We're going to hear him just like that, c'mon, baby, show me again," and Jon groans again, his arms shaking where he's bracing himself. She wants so badly to hear Lovett like this, just _lost_ to it. "We could, could edge him," she tries, throwing it out, and Jon's next thrust is harder, more demanding. "I could make you—make you make him wait till—fuck, Jon—till we could hear—"

Jon shudders, hips jerking. She can feel him come, this time; she can’t always, but today it’s impossible to mistake, heat and wet flooding her. She pets his hair with one hand and slides the other down to her clit, needing just a little more for herself. “So fucking good for us both, Jon, you’re—make me come so hard. Make Lovett—fuck—“

Jon pulls out, but pushes thick fingers up into her so she can clench around them, so close she’s tensing every muscle in her legs. “You’re—he’ll—“

"You'd make him," Jon tells her, voice thick, face pressed against her neck. "We'll hear—he'll want to—" and that's it, that's enough: Emily rubs her clit again, squeezing down around Jon's fingers, and comes, not letting go of Jon. She's pretty loud herself, this time.

They manage their usual exhausted flop into a reasonable cuddling arrangement, and Emily catches her breath. “Love you.”

“You too,” Jon breathes. “All that just from making out with Lovett, huh?”

"Yeah," she says, and shudders again with an aftershock. She feels sore in a pleasant kind of way between her legs, a reminder of how much they needed each other. It's the sort of thing she'd like to find a way to tell Lovett, but she's not sure where the line is on things so... explicitly vaginal.

She says, suddenly curious, “When you and Lovett talk about me, where’s the—like, when does he get squirrelly about ladyparts? Really early or can you get into it a bit?”

Jon shifts until he can look at her, eyes wide. “We don’t talk about your parts! That wouldn’t be—uh—respectful.”

She thinks he might actually mean it. “Lovett and I talk about your dick, though. I’m not saying it’s exactly the same, but like ... you can.”

Jon is always pretty, but after he's come it's really at a peak. His eyes are dark, his face flushed. "Do you think he'd like that?" It's not judgemental at all, just curious, the same way Emily is. The pair of them, finding out Lovett's tells, Lovett's desires, together.

She pets Jon’s hair, thinking. “I think he likes to be in on things. And he likes talking about sex with you. So—probably. Up to a point.” She thinks about it, adds, “I promised to text him after this and tell him about it. You could text him, instead. Tell him how—how turned on I was, from kissing him.”

Jon presses his face back against her neck, snuggling in close. "Yeah," he says. "How he—was good for you, gave you what you needed. He'd like that."

He's not the only one. Emily's Jons are predictable in some ways.

“Text him while I wash up, then,” she says. “Do we still have enough of that salmon for dinner?”

“Maybe?” Jon rolls over to get his phone, starts tapping. Emily wants to watch the conversation unfold, but she makes herself get up and put on her PJs instead. Jon and Lovett have their own things to talk about, separate from her, and that’s okay.

She pads around the kitchen, peering into the fridge and rummaging for sides to throw with the salmon, Leo snuffling happily at her heels as soon as she's out of the bedroom. Jon emerges after a little while, in his own PJs, still texting.

"So?" Emily says, watching the small, sweet smile playing across Jon's face. "Did he approve?"

"Yeah, he—" Jon hooks an arm around her waist and draws her in close. "He's, um. He's telling me about how he jerked off after you left."

Emily raises her eyebrows, looking at Jon and not the phone, despite her curiosity. "He did?"

"Yeah. Said he was thinking about, like ... you and me, together. The way you, um." He tilts the phone to her, scrolling to a message instead of finishing the sentence. _It's so fucking hot how she makes you take it._

Emily gets a hot shiver of pride all down her spine. "So fucking hot, huh?"

Jon nods, biting his lip. "No arguments here."

"Do you think—" Emily breaks off, tries to figure out what she actually wants to say. "We could make Lovett take it too? Like. From you. When I say."

“Uh—yeah. Definitely. I mean, I’d be into that, but I’m almost sure he would, too.”

She’s too sated to be exactly turned on by the thought, but it still feels like it settles into her body, waiting to arouse her later. “Well. We’ll have to talk to him about that, then. You want asparagus?”

“Whatever you want to make sounds amazing, babe,” Jon tells her, which is sweet but also definitely said on his way out of the kitchen, leaving her to make it. Men. Honestly.

She does make the asparagus in the end and they eat on the couch, Leo hopefully watching them from another pillow. Jon's still texting on and off, and Emily thinks, well, maybe Jon noticed too, how Lovett was keeping himself quiet. Maybe he has thoughts.

“I kinda want to—I want Lovett to feel like he can be loud, with us,” she says. Jon turns away from CNN to look at her, and even sets his phone down.

“That’d be cool,” he says. “He does seem a little, uh, buttoned-up. Not that I’m complaining, just—“

“It would be hot to hear him really let loose,” Emily agrees, and then, “Not just hot. Nice, too. Like he—I don’t know.”

"Like he's holding back," Jon says. His mouth twists kind of unhappily. "Like he doesn't—fuck, trust himself to be louder."

“ _Yes!_ ” Emily exclaims. “Thank you! Jesus. It definitely feels like that, doesn’t it?”

Jon looks a little taken aback at her response. “Sorry, I just—I’m glad you think so, too. Because if it’s something we both want to fix, we can. Fix it. Don’t you think?”

"Lovett takes a while to be comfortable," Jon says, slowly, "but—I thought he was, with us. I think—yeah, I think, if it's something he's doing because he's—scared or something, we can help."

“Exactly. We’ll help him feel, like—free to be responsive. And loud. And desperate.” Her voice trails off, thinking about it again, and then she clears her throat. “Anyway. We can help him.”

“Out of the pure goodness of our hearts,” Jon says, lips twitching.

"Altruistic," Emily says. "A, uh, limited public service." God, though, Lovett desperate and uninhibited. She can feel herself flush, even as smugly sated as she currently feels.

“Mm-hmm,” Jon was, laughing, and turns his attention back to his phone. “Well, I’m in your hands. Execute your vision. I’m on board.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” She looks at the CNN ticker. “Can we watch something else? And I don’t mean MSNBC.”

“Sure, babe,” Jon says absently. Emily changes the channel and starts tracking how long until Jon actually notices.

***

She takes some time to work out what she wants to try, what Lovett might like. She doesn't explicitly bring it up with him again for a few days: she figures that's better for him.

He’s coming over on Saturday, though, a long lazy evening with the potential of sleeping in the next morning, and Emily thinks that might be ideal timing. Lovett relaxes on weekends better than Jon does; he turns off his phone sometimes, even. Maybe he’ll be more relaxed with them, too.

Maybe she’ll also make sure they have some lemon-drop shots after dinner, though. Can’t hurt.

Lovett arrives late afternoon, rumpled-looking with wet hair, and Emily just—she's jealous, sometimes, that Jon gets to see him every day at work. Not bad jealous, more like—she sees Jon every day. It feels strange sometimes that they don't both see Lovett too.

She greets him with a kiss, Jon getting his cheek while she’s still lingering. “Mm, alright, wait your turn,” Emily laughs, and relinquishes her place.

Jon doesn’t linger unduly, but he does get a grope in before he lets go, enough to make Lovett lean into him. Emily lets them both see her looking, then says, “Dinnertime!”

Jon rubs his nose, somewhere between embarrassed and pleased that Emily was watching. "Yeah," he says, and throws an arm around Lovett's shoulders. "We can help!"

“Uh-huh,” she says, sceptical. “Well, set the table, would you?”

“Need any salad tossed?” Jon asks, voice playful. “I can toss the salad.”

Emily rolls her eyes for Lovett’s benefit, but Lovett’s already rolling with the bit. “That’s true. I can provide a reference. Excellent salad-tossing.”

He's not looking at either of them; he rarely does, when he makes the jokes, but glances up straight after to see how they react.

"Thank you," Jon says. Even if it's in a bit, he goes so easy for praise, so pleased. "Appreciate the feedback on my culinary skills."

Lovett snickers again, and then crosses back towards Emily, slides a casual kiss across her temple. "I can help for real. Really! I'll—chop things. I can chop."

"You don't know what dicing is," Emily points out.

"Sure I do! It's another word for chopping! I know things! It's in the crossword sometimes."

Emily shakes her head. She'll work on Lovett's kitchen skills another time. "Can you wash some lettuce for me?" That seems in line with his skills and abilities.

She watches him with half an eye, partly to make him laugh, and the meal comes together great in the end, the three of them sitting closer together than they need to to eat, even though it's not the most convenient.

She likes this closeness most of all, she sometimes thinks. The sex is great— _god_ , the sex is great—but she's always loved being one of the only people Lovett is comfortable with, physically. One of the only people he'll let hug him and cuddle him and play with his hair. Now he lets Jon, too, mostly, and it's—it's nice. It's more than nice.

She cuddles up close again when they've finished eating, scooting her chair over to him and leaning her head on his shoulder. He smells clean and good, and he wraps his arm around her waist without hesitation. Jon, watching, can't seem to stop smiling.

Emily thinks maybe they won't need the shots after all.

"I want to tie you up," she murmurs in Lovett's ear. She's not sure Jon can hear her; she's sure he'll be fine with it, regardless.

Lovett sucks in a shuddery breath. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she says. "I want to have you tied up for me. Tied to the bed."

She can hear his breath catch, gratifyingly.

"We've got a good headboard for it, don't you think? When we moved to LA, I picked out a better frame than Jon's old bed. You remember that one he had in DC?"

"Not—not really," Lovett says. Jon's listening in now; he can hear them fine, and he looks like the cat that got the canary.

"Mm. No slats, nothing you could tie anyone up to. Very annoying. But this one works great, if I want to cuff your hands above your head so you're at my mercy. How's that sound?"

Lovett shifts in his seat. "I think you know how it sounds," he says. "What—what would you do with me? When you had me—tied up?"

"I'm going to make Jon touch you, as much as I want. For as long as I want. As unsatisfyingly for you as I want." Emily can feel her voice getting low, feel herself settling into the voice, her powerplay voice. She doesn't ever mean to put it on; it just comes out, when she's getting into an idea that way. She's very fucking into this idea. "How's that?"

"Uh—yes," Lovett says. "Yes. Does verbal consent do the job, or do you want something in writing? Yes."

Emily laughs into his neck. "That'll work fine."

"So, when were you thinking?" Lovett is looking steadily at the table, a sure tell that he means what he's saying. Jon, on the other hand, is turning a dull, anticipatory pink.

"How's now work for you?" Emily asks.

"Uh, now's fine. Nothing on the calendar."

"Jon's gonna take your shirt off, then," Emily says, flicking her eyes towards Jon. He gets up so fast he almost knocks his chair over, which breaks the mood a bit, but not, Emily thinks, in a bad way.

Lovett starts to get up but Emily keeps her hands on his shoulders. "Don't move," she tells him. "I want to watch Jon strip you."

Lovett isn't softening. That's maybe not the ideal term for what she means; she certainly wouldn't use it with either of them, because it might give them the wrong idea. But when she wants to tie a guy up, when he's into it—Jon, or her college boyfriends—she expects a certain ... relaxation. Lovett's agreed to put himself in her hands, but he's still carefully keeping himself poised. She's been seeing it, but only now is she really grasping how much he's being ... careful.

She wants Lovett to understand he can let go, with them. That's what tonight is about.

She dips forward and kisses the side of his neck. Maybe if she's clearer, if he doesn't have to think at all. "Arms up," she tells him.

He lifts them obediently, and Jon—god, she loves Jon—climbs right over his lap, straddling him, and kisses his throat. Jon's fingers are playing with the hem of Lovett's shirt, barely moving it upward, and he catches Emily's eye long enough for her to smile at him. Yeah: just like that.

Lovett's arms are still up; after a minute he lets his hands flop down, forearms on the top of his head. She can tell that he wants to touch Jon, and she likes that he isn't, yet. That he's obeying her. "Good boy, Lovett. Hands off, tonight. You're ours to play with, aren't you?"

He nods, swallowing, and Emily ducks back to kiss the other side of his throat again, lingering. "Good boy," she murmurs, and it's Jon that responds, making a soft sound against Lovett's skin.

She stifles a laugh, says, "You too, Jon." She sits back in her chair and watches him teasing and kissing Lovett, winding him up. She doesn't remember telling Jon about her plan to rev Lovett up, but then, this is just what Jon likes. Jon wants to linger, most of the time. He likes to massage her and go down on her and take his time with her. And Lovett's all new territory for him, in more ways than one. It figures that Jon, given the opportunity, will take all the time in the world working Lovett over.

He stays at Lovett's neck, kissing him softly, his hands skimming just under Lovett's shirt. Lovett shivers, like he's ticklish there, but Emily knows he's not. "Good," she tells him again, and his arms twitch. She smiles against the back of his neck. "Jon," she says. "Take his shirt off. I want to see him."

Jon peels it off him quickly now, and Lovett starts to let his arms fall, then hesitates. Emily reads it for the question it is, but doesn't, this time, jump in to answer. If Lovett wants something, he can ask. She's got all the patience in the world, and a half-full glass of wine from dinner, too.

Jon's stroking Lovett's chest now. Emily would like to move them all back to the bedroom, to get to tie Lovett up, but she thinks she'd better wait for Lovett to say something, no matter how long it might take.

Jon keeps sweeping his hands over Lovett's chest, smooth strokes. He doesn't avoid or focus on Lovett's nipples, just moves his hands like he has a right to, like Lovett is there to be touched. Emily approves.

Jon moves his hands around to Lovett’s back, his mouth taking over in front. He’s having to arch down in a way that seems like it can’t be comfortable, and Lovett can see it. That might get his mouth moving, Emily thinks. That, or the tremor in his upper arms, even though they’re fully folded over his head now, hands on his elbows. She waits. 

Jon bites, here and there, leaving red marks and a silently gasping Lovett.

Jon dips again to kiss gently over one of the marks he's made, almost reverential, and Lovett jerks in his seat. "Should we—" he has to clear his throat "—Em, do you want us somewhere else?"

That's not quite what Emily is after, but at least he's asking, even if he's framing it for her. They can work up to the rest.

“Sure. Jon, Lovett wants to move, so let’s move.” She smiles at Lovett, making it—she hopes—visibly a reward. Jon gets up, and Emily gets a good look at the both of them, hard in their jeans. “Very nice. Bedroom, now. And Lovett, I want you right in the middle, arms up.”

They do as she says, Lovett climbing up onto the middle of the bed without hesitation. He lies down on his back, arms over his head, and waits. Emily fucking loves to look at him, especially like this, waiting for her approval. He has such delicate wrists, she thinks. Ready to cuff.

"Is this what you wanted?" she prompts, climbing up next to him and running one hand up the length of his arm until she can wrap her fingers around his wrist and press it into the pillow. "Tell me."

Lovett nods. It's certainly an obedient nod; that part's good. But for fuck's sake. "Tell me with your words, babe. That's what I want."

"Yeah," Lovett says, and then stops.

He'd been talking okay when she'd proposed it; it's only once there's nudity and erections and kissing that he seems to shut off his usual verbosity. She wonders, not for the first time, if he's like this with everyone, or if it's just them. She thinks, definitely for the first time, _I could text Chace and ask,_ but that's the coward's way out. "Tell me better," she says instead, "or I might not tie you up at all."

Lovett's gaze flicks over to her, almost startled; she waits, to see what he needs. "I," he says, and closes his eyes. "I want—I want you to tie me up."

Emily is a genius and has hot genius ideas. The way Jon presses against her says he agrees.

She squeezes Lovett's wrist harder, says, "Good, that's good, sweetheart. Yeah, I'm gonna cuff you to the bed and let Jon loose on you." He sucks in a breath, hard, and she grabs his other wrist and then leans down to kiss him. Jon peels away from her and rustles in the dresser for, she's guessing, the cuffs. He's as excited about this as she is—maybe even as much as Lovett is.

Maybe not. From the way he's kissing her, Emily's pretty sure Lovett's very, very excited.

He's clearly trying to stay flat on the bed but she can feel his chest pressing against her as he strains upwards, can feel his breath starting to turn unsteady. Behind her, Jon presses the cuffs into her hands. She leans up, presses her mouth softly to the tender skin at the inside of Lovett's wrists, lets herself linger. "Good," she murmurs again, brushing her lips against his pulse point. "Beautiful."

Lovett makes a tiny sound, like the littlest echo of one of Jon’s gorgeous whimpers. She likes it. She wants more. The cuffs belt on, and she takes her time pulling the tongue through the buckle, squeezing down on Lovett’s wrist before she loosens it to a safer circumference.

"How does it feel?" she asks, testing its give. "Tell me. You can check."

Lovett obediently tugs against the cuffs: they don't budge. The other end is fastened around the headboard and he can still move, but not far, not much.

“Good,” he says. 

“Not-pinching good or good good?”

“Uh—both?”

"Good," Emily says, and kisses his wrist again. When she comes back up, his eyes have fluttered shut. "Jon," she says, and Jon's attention is on her at once. God, he's good to look at, hard in his jeans, dark-eyed and wanting her to give him permission to act.

“I think—“ She tugs the cuffs again, and strokes a teasing finger down Lovett’s sensitive forearm. “I think you should only touch Lovett a little, until he asks for more. What do you think?”

“I think that sounds hot,” Jon agreed, grinning. He climbs onto the bed on Lovett’s other side and pulls his shirt off; Lovett’s eyes drop immediately to his chest, and then go to his belly, and then his nearest bicep, and Emily grins, watching Lovett watch Jon.

Jon is preening a little under the attention, even as he's starting to blush. "Where—where first?" he asks, still staring at Lovett, at his bare pale skin. Emily can see how much he wants to touch him again, how much he wants his hands back on Lovett.

"Wherever you want, as long as it's not too ... direct," Emily says. She catches Lovett's eye and gives him a grin. It might, possibly, be a bit of an evil grin, based on the look she gets back. It's almost as good as a whimper, that look. But she's holding out for the real thing.

Jon lies along the bed, long fingers skimming Lovett's bare side. Lovett shivers, belly contracting, but doesn't make a sound. Emily climbs onto the bed too. She can wait. She can wait as long as it takes, especially with this to watch, Lovett tied where she wants him, at Jon's mercy. At her mercy. She isn't feeling inclined to be merciful.

"Don't you love the weekend?" She keeps her tone conversational. "All the time in the world to tease. Of course, Lovett, if you want something more than a tease, all you have to do is ask." She pauses, thinks about Lovett's natural tendency to rules-lawyer every situation. "Clearly and specifically and in English."

She can see the immediate stubborn set to his jaw, his chin just coming up. "Those are the rules, okay?" She stays conversational—Jon sits back for a second, both of them watching for Lovett's reaction—and it's clear that Lovett agrees just a fraction before he speaks, something giving in the line of his body, the shape of his wrists.

"Yes," he says, eyes still squeezed closed. It's quiet, but it's certain. Maybe Lovett wants this as much as they do, wants to be pushed and coaxed and _loved_ past whatever worry or fear is holding him back. "Okay."

“Jon, rev him up for us, darling. I want to see him writhing.” Jon looks briefly dazed, like he’s picturing that. He shakes it off and climbs over Lovett, sitting across his thighs so Lovett isn’t getting any easy dick friction. Jon’s hands sweeping up Lovett’s belly and chest are everything Emily wants to watch. If Netflix had this as a channel, she’d never turn it off.

Lovett doesn't open his eyes, his body still not completely relaxing under Jon's hands, but his hands are lax in the cuffs, not struggling. Emily is proud of herself, honestly: the suggestion of being tied up seems to be what Lovett needed, the idea that he _can't_ stop what's happening even though, in reality, he could in a second. But like this—like this, he's entirely in their hands.

Emily has to kiss him again, turning his chin to face her and _kissing_ him, warm and more heated than the slow caress of Jon's hands over Lovett's skin.

Lovett kisses her back eagerly, and she can feel the bed move as he shifts his hips, seeking out—she’s sure of it—some kind of friction with Jon. Jon isn’t giving it to him, though. Jon understood the rules. “Something you want, sweetheart? Something you want to ask for?” She doesn’t put Lovett on the spot by watching him, just transfers her kisses to his temples, his jaw, so there’s no impediment to speech.

"I," Lovett says, strangled. "I—touch—" and peters out, not even gasping when—Emily looks up to see—Jon scratching his chest with his stubby fingernails. He gets so self-conscious, Emily thinks, and kisses his temple again, waiting him out. His skin is hot under her mouth, like he's warring with something inside him, some bigger feeling he can't work around. "More," Lovett manages, in that same small, tight voice. "Em—"

“That’s it, Lovett. Jon can do more. But it’s gonna be more of the same unless you ask for something different.”

He goes quiet again— _fuck_ —and she kisses his shoulder. “You’re so hot like this, you know that? We can’t get enough of you. Of having you with us.”

 _That_ does get a reaction: a sound, quiet and quickly stifled, but a sound nonetheless. Emily hides a smile against the side of Lovett's throat.

Jon heard it too, she thinks; he's shifting his posture, trying to grind against Lovett's thigh without letting Lovett grind back. She catches sight of it and turns to actually watch, because for all the awkwardness of the attempt, it's always, always fucking gorgeous to watch Jon work on getting himself off. "Not too fast, babe," Emily tells him, and he mutters back, "At this angle there's nothing fast about it, believe me."

"You see," Emily says, to Lovett, "look how much Jon wants you. How much he loves touching you like this." Lovett opens his eyes, blinking, and Emily leans back in to kiss his throat again, feeling the pulse under his soft skin. "You're so hot," she tells him, "so hot for us," and Lovett jerks again, and Emily glances over to see Jon scratching lightly at the exposed underside of Lovett's arm, stretched inviting and vulnerable over his head. "You can want more." She kisses him again. "Just ask for it."

Lovett takes a breath, then another. There's a tension in his body that she thinks, _hopes_ , is him steadying himself to ask for something. "You—Jon could— _touchmynipples_ ," one mumbled rush of words, but she heard it and she'll take it.

"You heard our Lovett, Jon," Emily says, but Jon's ahead of her, already honing in, mouth-first.

Lovett has bigger nipples than Jon, puffier, the peak standing out less than on Jon. They're more sensitive too, they're discovered: the first time they got Lovett topless and Jon reached up to tweak one, testing, Lovett had almost fallen out of Jon's lap.

It's probably been killing Jon, waiting to touch tonight; he's certainly making up for the lack now, and Lovett's breathing is catching. He lets out another of those little noises, and Emily says, "That's so good, babe. Jon—bruise him for me?"

Both of her boys make soft noises in response to that, and Emily runs her fingers through Lovett's hair and kisses his temple. She can see Jon seeking out the right spot, nipping until Lovett tenses, and then biting down, sucking the skin between his teeth. Lovett's frozen again now, but it's the good kind, the _fuck that hurts I like it_ kind of stiff.

Lovett likes to hurt in bed more than Jon—not just for anything, and he certainly doesn't like pain generally at all—and he's getting that now, judging from the way his face has screwed up. Emily watches, hungrily, as Jon bites just next to one of Lovett's nipple, leaving a mark, and pushes down on it hard with one thumb. Lovett gasps, sharp and high.

Every little noise he's making is getting Emily hotter. She squeezes her thighs together, shoves a hand between them, just enough to grind against. She'll get off later; she's focused on Lovett right now."Yeah, Jon. You're making Lovett feel amazing. Isn't he, Lovett?"

That one's easier for Lovett: "Yeah," breathy and impossible to disbelieve.

She gives Jon a look. His gaze catches on her hand between her legs, before he looks at her properly. Fuck. Emily rocks against the heel of her hand, just for a second. Jon lifts off, tugging at Lovett's nipple with his teeth as he goes, and Lovett makes a small noise of loss, jerking again, the handcuffs rattling for the first time.

"Again?" Emily asks, knowing the answer. "Just ask me again, Lovett, and I'll let him do it again."

"Ye-yes. Again." He barely even hesitates. Emily's so fucking proud of him, and not a little pleased with herself for coming up with this clearly excellent plan.

Jon ducks down again, scrapes his teeth over one tightened nipple. Emily can't keep her eyes off the swollen red of the bruise Jon left; it looks needy, and she snakes a hand across to press her thumb into it.

" _Ah_ —" and it's the first real noise Lovett's made, clear and unmistakable, pure need drawn out of him. He presses his lips together right after, but he can't take it back, can't make them unhear it. Jon groans against his skin, like it's him being bitten. He grinds thoughtlessly—it's clearly thoughtless—down against Lovett and he must—it must catch Lovett somehow, because the next noise Lovett makes is more desperate, even though Jon can only have grazed his dick, if that.

Emily decides to let Jon go with his instincts for a minute; it's clearly working. She just keeps her thumb where it is, and her lips on Lovett's jaw, and listens to Lovett losing his careful control.

It isn't exactly a sudden flip into full abandon, but Lovett's definitely letting noises escape now, soft needy groans and gasps. Nothing has sounded this good in Emily's entire life, she thinks.

She could stay here forever, pressing against Lovett's wanting body, feeling his chest hitch with his breathing. Jon's still not giving him enough, Emily thinks, on a rush of heat—she can feel it in the way Lovett is starting to pull against the cuffs—and she knows—she hopes—that Lovett will—that he'll—

"Please," Lovett bursts out, strained. " _Please_."

"Tell us," Emily urges him. "Tell us, we want to give it to you, whatever you want, you just have to—"

Lovett shakes his head, just a little. Emily withholds a groan of disappointment, and says instead, "Jon, do—bruise his thighs for me now." They've got plenty they can do to tease him, still, if he's not ready to ask.

Jon climbs down, and taps the outside of Lovett's thigh. It's a question, but he's not asking Lovett.

"Open your legs for us," Emily says, "give Jon room," and has the immense pleasure of watching Lovett's dick twitch.

Lovett spreads his thighs, not hesitating. He's pulling against the cuffs now, but Emily can tell it's from being wound up, from wanting to touch. It's what she likes to see, when she ties someone up: a little bit of beautiful struggle.

She likes to see the rest of this, too. Jon, settling on his elbows and running his nose up the sensitive inside of Lovett's thigh until Lovett yanks it away. Lovett, settling in with a half-sigh of want when Jon pins his leg to the bed and starts nibbling.

She sits up slightly to get a better view, runs her fingers through Lovett's hair so he doesn't feel isolated suddenly, alone at the top of the bed. Jon is—inspired, honestly, nipping so high on Lovett's delicate inner thigh that his nose is almost—so nearly—brushing Lovett's balls. He's leaving little pink marks in his wake, pressing down on each one as he goes. Emily's husband learns fast.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? Jon’s mouth is so fucking good. Might be put to an even better use if you just ask.”

Lovett whines, actually fucking whines. Emily kisses him, frantic, and hears the sound of Jon sucking a real bruise into him, like a reward.

She curls her hand around the side of Lovett's throat, not putting any pressure there, just letting him feel it, possessive, while Jon goes to town, making Lovett buck and then—amazingly—whimper, soft, into Emily's hair.

“Yeah, sweetheart. That’s it, that’s all we want. Just let yourself enjoy it. Do you want more yet? Want him to eat you out? Suck you off? Tell me what you want and you can have it, Lovett, anything you want.”

"I," Lovett gasps, and she can feel the tension in him, his body taut underneath her as she leans to reach his mouth. "I—he—"

"Yeah," Emily breathes, aching, "that's it, tell us, let us hear you."

Lovett groans, real and deep and loud. He sounds so ready to give in, so ready to ask. “Tell us," Emily urges him. "Tell us, we want to give it to you, whatever you want, you just have to—"

"Suck my fucking cock, please just— _god_ , you gotta, please, anything—"

Jon's already groaning, already moving up from Lovett’s thigh, but it's like a dam has burst in Lovett; he's still talking, even as Jon's bringing Lovett's cock to his mouth. "Need it so much, you're so hot, I'm, you're fucking killing me with this—fuck, that's—that's so good, that's so—your mouth is—"

His voice is pitching high and low, wobbling with need. "Please," he says again, and, " _fuck_ ," and, "keep," breaking in and out of sentences. Jon is giving him what he asked for, what Emily wanted, is sucking Lovett's cock like he's the one that's been teased and hollowing his cheeks around Lovett's dick is the only relief he can imagine.

Lovett, noisy, is even better than Emily had imagined. His eyes are closed, face tensing and relaxing as he finds words and lets them out. Emily kisses his jaw, and finally starts touching herself for real, shoving down her yoga pants and getting—god—two fingers inside herself, crooked and pressing just right.

She can't help but groan, rocking against her hand, and both her Jons clearly notice. Jon makes a muffled noise around Lovett's dick, and Lovett's eyes fly open, focusing in on her, his cheeks pink.

“You’re so hot together,” she tells them. “You’re being so good for us, Lovett. This is—ah—exactly what we wanted. Is this what you wanted?”

Lovett looks down at Jon, pulls a little against the cuffs. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s—fuck. Yeah.”

"Good," she says, starting to lose her breath. "Is Jon giving you what you need? Tell me."

"Yeah, it's—fucking—he's so, his mouth is so— _yes_."

"Do you want to come, sweetheart?" Emily asks, with effort. "Tell us you want to come and you can, we'll make it happen."

Lovett screws his eyes shut again, face working.

She can tell he’s close; Jon’s working him fast, hand and mouth working together on the length of Lovett’s cock. She reaches down and thumbs the bruise on his chest again, flicks his nipple. “C’mon, sweetheart. Just ask. Jon wants you to come in his mouth.”

"I," Lovett chokes, "I want—" and loses his voice to breath, rapid little _ah_ s, almost inaudible. Emily wants to hear more; she wants this never to stop; she wants Lovett to feel good and loved and _come_ , for them.

"You sound amazing," she tells him, rocking down against her hand, pressing the bruise—the bruise that Jon made, deliberate and thorough—again with her other. "Lovett—god, this is—tell us—"

"Please," Lovett bursts out, and it's like he's crossed a line, like it's all tumbling out. _Like he needs it that much_ , Emily thinks, and comes, slightly surprising herself, clenching around her fingers. Lovett manages, "Did you—oh fuck—I want—" and Emily pants, "Tell us what you want," shaking, bracing herself on Lovett's chest.

"Want—want to come, want Jon to keep—it's so good, I'm so fucking close, please just—"

"Yeah, sweetheart," Emily groans. "Yeah, you can, you're so good for us, you're, I love you, come for Jon now, that's it—"

" _Oh_ ," and Emily sees Jon brace himself, sees Lovett's whole body go tense, wrists pulling against the cuffs. Emily could watch him like this forever, straining, giving over to it.

"So good, Lovett," Emily manages, and Lovett bucks up into Jon's mouth, groaning, mouth dropping open.

Lovett's biceps strain and then relax; his whole body strains and relaxes. "Fucking—wow."

Emily is very pleased with the results of her experiment. She rolls closer, freeing her—er—less wet hand to smooth the damp curls away from Lovett's forehead, and to reach up and release him from the chain of the cuffs. She leaves the cuffs on his wrists, though; she likes how he looks in them. "What should we do for Jon?" she whispers in Lovett's ear. Jon's still down there, cleaning Lovett up and nuzzling at the marks on his thighs.

Lovett turns his face towards her, breathing hard, looking for comfort. He needs to be held, Emily has learned, just as much as Jon does. "I—" and he breathes out, goes again. "He—come on me. He should come on me."

 _That's_ a real fucking breakthrough, right there. That's what Lovett wants, more than it's what he thinks Jon wants, and he's asking for it. "Where? Your belly? Your face?" she asks him, and to Jon, "Come up here and jerk off for us, baby."

Jon almost trips over himself in his rush to do what she says. She pulls her fingers out of herself and just—rocks against them instead, a blunt, everywhere sort of pleasure.

"Stay—" Lovett starts, and catches Emily's eye. "He should s-straddle me. My thighs."

Jesus, that's an image."You heard him," Emily says. "Come and do what we need, baby."

Jon looks frantic, desperate now that he's made Lovett come to get himself off. His hand finds his cock before he's even settled fully onto Lovett's thighs, and from where he is, Emily's pretty sure he could paint Lovett's belly or, instead, Lovett's wet, softening cock.

"Prop yourself up, sweetheart," Emily murmurs, as Lovett strains to see, and he moves an arm under his head, the cuff still around his wrist. Jon's face is screwing up with need.

"Like this?" Jon pants. He's stroking himself jerkily, out of rhythm. He looks fucking gorgeous. "Am I—is this good?"

Emily looks, pointedly, at Lovett. “Tell him.”

“Yeah, it’s—fucking good, so good, you’re, god, Jon, gonna keep this picture in my head for fucking ever.”

Jon groans, and Emily knows that groan; he’s close.

Lovett might know it too, by now: the look on his face says he's guessed, at the very least. Emily strokes his hair again, careful in his curls.

"You're so good, Lovett," she says, over the slick sound of Jon jerking off. "Look how much Jon loves it. Look how much he loved hearing what you want."

“Want—this, yeah. Come right—there, Jon, just—come all over me, you can.” Lovett’s sounding more certain, more confident, with every sentence. “Come on my cock, Jon, don’t you want to? Mark me as—“ Lovett stumbles, then stops, but Emily thinks she can pick up this thread. 

“Mark him as ours, baby. Cover him in it, c’mon.”

Beside her, Lovett trembles; there isn’t a better word for it. Emily finds his hand and threads their fingers together, and Lovett says, softly, “Yeah. Mark me as yours.”

" _Fuck_ ," Jon groans, frantic, stripping his cock. "Fuck—mark you as—you're— _ours_ —" and he's coming, spilling over his knuckles. He moves, enough that it drips off him, splashes where Lovett wanted, his softening cock, his licked-wet thighs.

Lovett makes an altogether new noise, loud and wordless and timed perfectly to make Jon’s hips jerk. Emily wants Lovett to make that sound again, a million times, for them. She passes a cloth from the nightstand drawer to Jon; he cleans himself up and then makes an interrogative face at Lovett. “It’s only sexy before it dries,” Lovett tells him, deadpan, and pulls the cloth from his hands to wipe Jon’s come off his skin.

Emily wants to watch that too, and feels slightly guilty about it. She wants as much of Lovett as he wants to give them.

For tonight, at least, she doesn’t watch. She rolls closer instead and covers the side of his face in kisses, quickly crossing over from tender into ridiculous. Lovett laughs and bats her away. “You _are_ ours, aren’t you?” she asks him, softly, while he’s still laughing and easy.

On Lovett's other side, Jon has gone still, listening. She keeps her gaze on Lovett, on his relaxed face, the laugh lines around his eyes.

He turns his face towards her. This close together, it feels intimate, more intimate somehow than the sex they just had. It feels like sleepovers, like secrets in the middle of the night. Long conversations in the early hours of the morning in the dark with the person you love. Or, Emily supposes, the people you love.

"Yeah," Lovett says, just as softly. "I am."

***

It’s more than a week, and many more glorious noises from Lovett, before Emily finally raises it with him again. They’re relaxing after dinner, sprawled on various surfaces in the living room, and it feels suddenly and utterly safe to just say, “So are you just—not as comfortable saying sex stuff out loud?”

Lovett looks up from his phone. He focuses on Jon first, and then seems to realize Emily was talking to him, swinging his gaze toward her. He looks ... she’s pretty sure that expression is “startled incredulity.” Oops.

"Not as comfortable?" Lovett repeats. One eyebrow has gone up. "Compared to who, Jon?"

Emily doesn't even need to look to know Jon is fidgeting, brushing his nose, his tell. "No," she says, "just like—you were so quiet, at first, so i thought maybe it was a comfort thing."

Lovett snorts. "No one's ever accused me of being quiet before."

"I'm not accusing you!"

Lovett looks amused, more than anything else. "Well, for the record, I'm a world champion of saying sex stuff out loud. Tried, tested, four out of five dentists choose my dirty talk over the leading competitor."

Jon leans forward, into Emily's eyeline. He wiggles his lips and scrunches his nose, then says, "So ... then why were you so quiet with us? At first."

Lovett looks for a second like he's not going to answer, but then something in his expression changes. "It's dumb," he says, and stops looking at them.

Emily catches Jon's eye, and he slides over on the couch until he can put an arm around Lovett. He doesn't play with Lovett's hair like Emily would, but he kisses Lovett's temple, and that works, too.

"No such thing," Emily says. "You can tell us. We—does it help if I remind you again that we're super into the noises? Super into you, generally."

"All right, calm down," Lovett says, but he's smiling. "Honestly."

Emily gets up to sit on the other side of Lovett too. It's for him, sure, but also she wants to be touching him for this, wants to reassure herself that that's a thing she can do, that Lovett likes.

"It just—you know, it's pretty wild that you guys want to fool around with me, I wasn't gonna fuck that up being too, uh. I don't know. Too into it. Too weird."

Emily can't help herself from jumping in to say, "We don't just want to fool around with you, Lovett. We—"

"No, yes, right, I know, I—I mean, I don't fully believe it's reality and not a San Junipero simulation, but yeah, I got that part. Now, I mean. But before, uh, not so much."

Emily cuddles up closer, putting her arm over Jon's, around Lovett's shoulders. "That's okay," she says. "It's—it's always okay to need time. As long as you know you can tell us stuff too, if you want."

“Right, yes, okay, anyway, my point is just—you know. I can be a lot. In many settings. So, just ... it seemed better to not, uh, be more than I needed to be in, uh, in bed.”

Emily eyes him. “I feel like what you’re getting at is that there are still uncharted depths we need to plumb.” She pauses. “Uh, no pun intended.”

She can see Lovett formulating a pun regardless but, surprisingly, Jon gets there first. "I volunteer for plumbing," he says, and Lovett groans, smacking his arm. Jon snickers, and rolls with it. "But you're not too much," he adds. "You're so much. But we love that. We—want all of it, Lo. All of you."

Lovett says, too fast, "If that's your way of saying you need a kidney, let me just stop you there." His hand, though, is settling above Emily's knee, rubbing his thumb in gentle circles. Whatever he can't quite say in words, he can still get across to them.

She can let him off the hook now, she thinks. "We both need a kidney," she parries. "You've got two, right? No big deal."

"Ugh," Lovett says, starting to smile, "I knew you were only in this for my body."

"Oh, we need the brain, too," Jon chimes in, grinning. "Or at least most of the frontal cortex. You can keep the rest."

"Bunch of zombies over here," says Lovett, and Jon kisses him, both of them smiling almost too big to make the kiss really work.

Emily snuggles in closer to Lovett’s half-turned body, nose on the back of his warm neck. “One more organ we’re really counting on,” she says, making sure it’s audible. “Care to guess? And don’t say dick.”

Lovett wriggles, slightly ticklish and letting her stay there. "Skin," he says, turning his head to give her better access. Jon, she notices, has snuck his hands under Lovett's top to touch his bare waist.

“Good guess,” Emily says. “God knows we love your skin. But I think you know that’s not what I mean.”

Lovett tips his head, lets Emily nuzzle in closer. "Yeah," he says, quietly. "I know what you mean." He's still tracing circles on Emily's thigh, gentle. Jon puts his arm back round Lovett's shoulders, the three of them tangled together. "It's—it's yours."

"You've got ours, too. It's kind of a—three-heart stew." Emily wrinkles her nose. "Maybe not a stew."

Lovett laughs. "I'd take a stew. A, a, polyamorous stew." Jon's stomach rumbles loudly.

"It's just a metaphor, Jon," Lovett says, and then, "We could stand to postmates something, though. Not stew."

"Sushi," Emily inserts. "So much sushi."

"See, this is why we work well." Lovett shifts until he's square between them again, until he can turn to kiss Emily. "Shared love of sushi. Shared love of bad TV. Shared love of Jon's dick. The important things."

"Oh my god," Jon says, but he's not fooling anyone. He can't hide what he's feeling, never can; it's written all over his open face, pride and happiness and an undercurrent of smugness. He gets his phone out, thumbing to the Postmates app. "Sushi?"

"Sushi," Lovett confirms, and wriggles back around so he can see the screen. "Not that. That."

Emily wraps her arms around his waist and hooks her chin over his shoulder, tilting up to accept the kiss Jon drops her. They're good, the three of them. The really fucking best metaphorical stew.

"All right, Lovett," Jon says, and catches Emily's eye. She grins back. "Whatever you want."


End file.
